Fool There Was — The Rescue; The Return
RESCUE.
Blake waited on the yacht, in the harbor of Liverpool.
It was hard for him to sit idly by at such a time; but he felt that it was best.
There was in his soul a great pity, to be sure--a great grief--a great horror-- yet there was there too a great, deep anger, and a wild resentment; for he loved the daughter of Jimmy Blair, you know; and it was not alone that Jack Schuyler was his friend; it was as well that he was her husband, and the father of her child.
So he did not trust himself to go, then; for he knew that all that he might do, Dr. DeLancey could do, and more.
Dr. DeLancey went, then, alone.
In London he found John Schuyler.
He did not announce himself; he bullied and stormed and finally persuaded those who stood between him and his quarry, to let him go unannounced.
He did not knock.
Instead he thrust open the door and entered.
Schuyler was standing before the grate with its burden of glowing coals.
He looked up.
He started, rubbing his eyes as one who sees but doesn't believe that which his gaze tells him to be so.
"It's you!"
he cried.
Dr. DeLancey nodded.
"Yes," he said, simply.
"Jack, I've come to take you home.
The yacht's waiting at Liverpool.
Tom's boat, you know.
Steam's up.
So get your hat."
Schuyler raised his hand, protestingly.
"But," he began, "I--" The doctor cried, explosively: "Don't you try to argue with me, young man.
I've neglected my practice and let everything go to the devil to come over here, and I don't want any of your dashed _buts_ thrown at me.
You get your hat and coat and you come with me.
D'ye hear me?"
"I can't go," said Schuyler.
The doctor brought his flat fist down upon the center table.
"Can't go!"
he howled.
"In about a split second I'll show you whether you can't or not.
You get your hat and coat!
Or," he went on, "come without 'em.
It's all the same to me.
Parks can pack up your things, and come on the 'Transitania,' to-morrow.
You're coming now.
D'ye hear me?
You're coming now--this dashed instant!"
He advanced upon Schuyler, gripping him by the arm.
Schuyler stood for a brief moment, doggedly.
Then suddenly his head dropped forward upon his breast.
"Very well," he acquiesced, slowly.
Suddenly his voice broke.
He almost whispered: "I'm glad you've come, doctor....
I was helpless--utterly helpless."
They took the train within the hour.
And the following morning found the "Vagrant" at sea, with John Schuyler on board.
Yet it was a different John Schuyler from the one they had known.
He had refused to shake hands with either Blake, or the doctor.
He did not mention the woman; nor did they.
They tried to be toward him as they had always been--as though all that had happened alone in imagination....
He did not sleep; he ate but little; and he drank, some.
Blake was heart-sick--soul-sick.
To see the man that he had known and loved as that man was!
But Dr. DeLancey assured him: "It'll take a year or two.
But he'll be all right in the end."
And yet even Dr. DeLancey did not feel certain that it was the truth that he spoke.
In crossing, Schuyler spent much time on a long, long letter--a letter that required much rewriting.
On landing, he mailed that letter to the daughter of Jimmy Blair.
As, on the pier, he separated from Blake and Dr. DeLancey, in spite of the insistent pleas of the one, and the testy commands of the other, that he come to live with them.
He said, only: "I shall go to a hotel.
I shall stay there a fortnight.
Don't come to see me.
Don't let anyone come to see me.
Don't even try to find out where I am.
There's one thing, and only one, for me to do.
I'm going to try to do it....
Sometime, I hope that I may shake hands with you, Tom.
Sometime I want to shake hands with Dr. DeLancey.
I want to tell you both all there is in my heart to tell you.
But that time is not yet.
God bless you for all that you've done for me."
And, white-lipped, moist-eyed, he left them.
[Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.
THE RETURN.
The library of John Schuyler's town house was a large room, done in dull browns and deep greens.
All that good taste and a sufficient purse could do to beautify it--to render it alike pleasing and restful to the eye, comforting and satisfying to the soul, had been done.
Carpeting was deep and rich.
The walls were panelled of mahogany, and the bookshelves sunk into their dull depths.
On either side of the door leading to the hall hung a painting, the one a Turner, the other a Corregio.
There was a fireplace--a huge fireplace wherein might lie a four-foot log; above it a mirrored mantel; before it the skin of a jaguar.
Across from this, a narrow flight of stairs led to the private apartments of the owner.
It was early fall now.
The roses in the garden of the Larchmont place had withered, and fallen.
It had been a dun morning, a morning of dull gray....
Schuyler sat at the big, mahogany desk in the center of his library.
Papers lay spread upon the table before him.
A decanter of cut glass and silver lay there, also.
The Schuyler that had come was different, very, from the Schuyler that had gone.
He was still quick, agile, alert; but there was gone from his clean-cut face the expression of cheerful optimism--of confident happiness--of all-spreading good-fellowship.
Little wrinkles had gathered at eye-corners--deeper were the lines that ran from nostrils to the ends of his mouth.
But these changes one might not have noticed were it not for the eyes.
For, from these the light had gone.
They were as lamps unlit.
Yet was there one other change apparent; for while before he had concentrated easily upon that which he had to do, now it was with difficulty--almost, even, with impossibility.
He paused, often, to pour from the decanter a little brandy into a small glass, and to drink that which he had poured.
He rose from his chair, to stride nervously, up and down, up and down.
He seated himself only to drink again; he drank again only to rise again; he rose again only to sit again.
He rapped, at length, upon the little bell that lay upon the table.
Waited; then rapped again.
And his brows creased in petulance.
"Now where the devil is Parks?"
he muttered, nervously.
He waited; and drank while waiting.
Then rang again the bell.
Even as its mellow note pierced the silence of the room, the door opened, and Parks entered.
He crossed to the desk, and laid upon it a bundle of documents that he had brought.
At his clear-cut face Schuyler looked.
"Well, here you are at last, eh?
Anyone would think that I had sent you to Singapore for those papers instead of merely upstairs."
"I'm very sorry, sir," was Parks' quiet response.
Schuyler took the papers, drawing them to him.
"That's all," he said, curtly.
"You may go."
"But--" "I said you might go."
Parks still hesitated.
Schuyler looked at him angrily.
"I merely wished to say," Parks spoke deferentially, even soothingly, and possibly a bit reluctantly, "that there is a lady--" Schuyler interrupted, quickly.
Parks nodded.
"Yes, sir.
The lady."
Schuyler said, eyes closing a little: "A lady."
"Well, send her--" Then, as Parks started to go: "No, tell her I'm not here."
"Very well, sir."
Again Parks started to leave the room; again Schuyler stopped him.
"Wait.
I've changed my mind.
I'll see her."
He reached for the decanter of brandy, and poured into one of the glasses an even inch of the amber liquor.
He raised the glass to his lips; but set it down again untasted; for Parks had started to speak again.
"Also there's a van here for your wife's--pardon me, for Mrs. Schuyler's furniture and trunks."
Schuyler's brows contracted; there was the slightest suggestion of a quiver at lip-ends.
Then, after a long, long pause, he replied: "Well, let them take all that she selected....
And Parks."
"Yes, sir?"
"I won't see the lady after all."
Parks nodded, and quietly withdrew.
Left alone, Schuyler for some moments sat silent and motionless before his desk.
But nowadays, he could not sit motionless for long.
There was that inside his brain--inside his soul-- which would not let him.
It kept him moving--moving--moving, without rest, without cessation; even as he had paced the deck of the liner, on that other morning, almost until the day had come to claim again from the night that which was its own.
Of a sudden he rose from his chair.
Swift strides took him across the room.
Quickly, nervously, he drew back the curtain from the window....
He could see, beneath him in the street, the van that had come for the belongings of his wife--of the woman who had borne him his child--the child which he had not seen since, upon the dock, she had waved him farewell.
John Schuyler had wandered into the Unknown.
Unwillingly, knowing full well what he was doing, but powerless to help--powerless to prevent--he had gone....
Sometimes it did not seem real to him.
It was a nightmare-- a horrid, horrible, awful, grewsome, rotten dream, a dream that brought to his nostrils a stench--to his soul a coldness unutterable--a coldness beside which that of death might seem a grateful warmth....
He would wake sometimes from his dreams, a cold sweat enveloping him like a pall, a scream upon his lips....
And then, again--He did not understand.
He could not understand.
It was hopeless, utterly, utterly hopeless....
Why should such things be?
How could such things be?
There was a God, presumably.
Presumably, that God was good....
There was no logic in it--no reason in it....
What did it all mean?
"Why?"
he asked himself, again and again, and yet again.
"Why?"
...
There had been no answer....
He watched the van load.
He watched the heavy horses throw themselves into the traces, as the whip fell across their flanks.
He watched the van slowly gather momentum.
He watched it rumble heavily down the sodden asphalt....
At length it turned the corner....
John Schuyler swung on his heel.
And then he laughed; it was a laugh that, God grant, you may never laugh, nor I!
[Illustration]
